There Is No Ghost So

Pleasure Has No Logic; It Never Treads In Its Own Footsteps.

I Go Into My Library, And All History Unrolls Before Me. I Breathe The Morning Air Of The World While The Scent Of Eden's Roses Yet Lingered In It, While It Vibrated Only To The World's First Brood Of Nightingales, And To The Laugh Of Eve. I See The Pyramids Building; I Hear The Shoutings Of The Armies Of Alexander.

In Winter, When The Dismal Rain Comes Down In Slanting Lines, And Wind, That Grand Old Harper, Smote His Thunder-harp Of Pines.

A Poem Round And Perfect As A Star.

If We Were To Live Here Always, With No Other Care Than How To Feed, Clothe, And House Ourselves, Life Would Be A Very Sorry Business. It Is Immeasurably Heightened By The Solemnity Of Death.